Cooper positioned himself slightly behind and to the side of the skipper, bending and sliding his rear onto a small iron seat attached to the hull. The six crewmen occupied similar seats, three on either side of the fore-to-aft shaft that had been cast with sections offset in the shape of broad, shallow U's. The crewmen grasped these to turn the shaft and propel the submersible at its maximum speed of four knots.
"Mr. Main," said Dixon, "would you be so good as to explain the test procedures to our crew?" As he spoke, he tested two handles. One operated the rudder attached to the propeller housing; the other controlled the angle of port and starboard diving planes.
"Simple enough," Cooper said. His back already ached from bending to the curve of the hull. "Tonight we will not use that candle as the sole determiner of how long this vessel can stay underwater. We shall use you gentlemen. We shall remain submerged an hour — an hour and a half —" some apprehensive murmuring at that "— perhaps more. We will not surface until the first man reaches his limit and announces that he can't continue to function without fresh air. Each man must find that limit for himself, being neither too confident of his own powers of endurance nor too quick to surrender to discomfort."
The final words bore a clear note of scorn, causing Dixon to react. But he was facing the instruments; Cooper didn't see the frown.
"When the first man calls out one word — up — that will be our signal to empty the tanks and rise to the surface. Any questions?"
"I just hope we can come up," one man declared with a nervous laugh. "Some of the sojers say this fish ought to be named Jonah 'stead of Hunley."
"Belay that kind of talk," Dixon said as he climbed the short ladder and poked his head out the forward hatch. From his cramped position, Cooper could glimpse a small section of the hatch opening: an oval of sky decorated with faint stars.
"Cast off the bow and stern lines."
Dockhands ran noisily to obey Dixon's order. Cooper could feel Hunley float free all at once. Dixon climbed down again and addressed the mate.
"Airbox shaft open, Mr. Fawkes?"
"Open, sir."
"Stand by to reverse crank. Half speed."
"Half speed — crank," the mate repeated. Grunting, the crewmen began to revolve the shaft.
It was awkward work, but Dixon had drilled the men well and developed smooth timing. The candle flickered. Water lapped the hull with a queer hollow sound.
Again Dixon went up the ladder, calling down commands to the mate, who had taken the rudder. As soon as they backed from the dock, they reversed direction and picked up speed. Sweat trickled on Cooper's chin. He felt entombed, wished he were anywhere but here. He fought rising panic.
Still with his head in the open, Dixon looked all around, three hundred and sixty degrees, then came down, reached overhead and secured the hatch.
"Stand by to submerge."
Cooper's heart was tripping so fast his chest hurt. He felt a keen respect for these men who had volunteered for this duty and some sense of the agony of those who had perished in the earlier dives. Then he chided himself. He was indulging in sentimentalities again.
"Close airbox shaft."
"Airbox shaft closed," the mate sang out.
"Opening bow tank seacock."
Cooper heard the gurgle and rush of water. The hull swayed and dipped. He grasped a stanchion mounted above him as Hunley's bow tilted down. He thought of Judith, Marie-Louise. He couldn't help it. They did call this the Peripatetic Coffin, after all.
She settled to the bottom with a shiver and a soft thump. The men relaxed against the hull or leaned on the drive shaft. One fellow said the hardest half of the voyage was over. No one laughed.
Dixon studied the mercury tube in the depth gauge. Cooper fought sudden, terrifying fantasies. Someone tightening a metal band around his head. Someone locking him in a lightless closet whose door had no inside knob —
Alexander patted his waistcoat. "Any of you gents have a timepiece? In the excitement, seems I forgot mine altogether."
"I do." Cooper fumbled for the slim gold watch he always carried. He snapped back the lid. "Ten past seven." The flame of the candle stood straight. Wax ran down to form tiny mountain chains on the sides.
At half past the hour, the candle was visibly dimmer. A man muttered, "Air's growing foul."
"Someone let one go," said another crewman. The snickers were halfhearted. Cooper's eyes began to smart. Dixon kept stroking his side whiskers with index and middle fingers.
"How long?" Alexander asked abruptly. Cooper roused. Either his sight was failing or the candle, half gone, had dimmed still more. He had to lift his watch near his chin to see.
"We've been down thirty-three minutes."
He kept the watch open in his hand. How loudly it ticked. As the light continued to dim, his mind played pranks. The intervals between ticks grew far apart; he seemed to wait a half hour for the next one. When it came, he heard the sound for a long time.
Alexander started to sing softly, some Cockney ditty about wheelbarrows and vegetable marrows. Crossly, Dixon asked him to stop. Cooper longed for Liverpool, Tradd Street, even the deck of Water Witch. Thoughts of the blockade-runner led to thoughts of poor Judah, his remains lying somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic. Cooper felt moisture on his cheeks, averted his head so no one would see —
The candle went out.
A man inhaled, a panicky hiss. Another cursed. Dixon scraped a match on the iron plating, but it produced no light, only a quick fizzing noise and then a smell.
Alexander's voice: "How long, Mr. Main?"
"A few minutes before the candle went out, approximately forty-five minutes."
"The air is still quite breathable," Dixon said. Someone's grumble disputed that.
Without sight, Cooper couldn't judge the passage of time. Nothing remained but a mounting pressure on his temples and devils in the mind, persuading him that he was suffocating, persuading him that he heard the iron plates cracking, persuading him that one thing after another was going wrong. He passed rapidly through dizziness, sleepiness, extreme confidence, the certainty of the imminence of his own death.
He ripped off his cravat, tore loose his collar button. He was strangling —
"Up!"
Laughter then, a rush of conversation. For a moment, wiping his sweaty neck, Cooper nearly convinced himself he had been the one to cry out. Calm, Dixon said, "Mr. Alexander, man the stern pump, if you please. I'll handle this one. Mr. Fawkes, Mr. Billings, unbolt the ballast bars."
Cooper rested his head against the hull, anticipating the sweet night air waiting up above. He heard the squeak and hiss of the pumps, the ring of an iron nut falling to the deck. The sound was repeated several times. "Ballast bars unfastened, sir."
"The bow's coming up," Dixon grunted, working the pump handle. "We should be lifting momentarily."
Everyone felt the bow rise. The men laughed and whistled, but that didn't last long. One exclaimed, "What's wrong, Alexander? Why ain't the stern coming up, too?"
"Captain Dixon?" The little Englishman sounded frightened. "The tank is still full. It's the pump." "We'll die," said the man immediately behind Cooper. Dixon: "What's wrong with it?"
"Fouled, I should suspect. Damn bloody seaweed, probably." "If we can't fix it, we can't return to the surface." Dixon's words, blurted like a command to Alexander, had a bad effect on the crewman who had spoken a moment before.
"We're going to suffocate. Oh, God, oh, God — I don't want to die that way." His baritone voice ascended to a high register, the words punctuated by the hiccups of his crying. "We're going to die. I know we're going to —"